


Laundry Days

by Beth Harker (chiana606)



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Anxiety, Domestic, Embarrassment, Family Problems, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-01 06:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11480568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiana606/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: With his mom newly out of the picture, and his dad pantless and out of commission, nobody is doing the adulting in Jeremy's house, and everything is going a little bit to hell.  Michael doesn't know exactly how to bring it up, but he wants to help.  Pre-canon.





	1. Chapter 1

There were some things that just couldn't be expressed delicately, even if you had a decent vocabulary, which Michael did. It wasn't that he spouted poetry when he talked, or slept with a thesaurus under his pillow, or anything like that. He was a geek and all, but not that particular flavor of geek. It was just that he'd grown up knowing the looks that people gave his parents when they fumbled on a word or two, and a couple years of doing spelling bees in elementary school had taught him how to pepper his speech with the occasional piece of five-star vocabulary, like _heinous_ or _cathartic_ , just to keep everyone off his case. And no, he didn't like the idea of basing the way he talked around other people’s reactions, and from an idealistic stand point he was totally against that, but that didn't change the fact that he knew a lot of ways to say a lot of stuff, especially for a guy who was known at school for barely opening his mouth. 

But euphemism? Euphemism wasn't Michael's forte, because usually he didn't need it. He’d spent a couple of years, at least, cultivating a certain hard-won expertise on avoiding drawn out conversations with anybody other than Jeremy. Well, Jeremy and his family and his psychologist, but it wasn't like Michael had any choice in that, especially not with the psychologist. Michael liked conversation people who got him (Jeremy), and liked what he had to say (very much a Jeremy thing), and would never ask for him to waste time editing and contemplating everything that came out of his mouth (also Jeremy ). It was comfortable and it was freeing. It kept Michael calm, and it made him happy. 

But anyway, Michael really liked talking to Jeremy, just not when it involved dancing around gross and potentially embarrassing issues. 

That’s why Michael glanced over at the other boy, and didn't say anything. Not a single solitary fucking word. 

They'd been playing Crystal Quest for nearly four hours, Jeremy staring at the screen, his hair greasy and uncombed, his T-shirt stained, and his tongue sticking out between his lips as he bit it in concentration. They were sitting close— close enough that their beanbags were shoved together, close enough that their knees were touching, close enough that Michael could feel it whenever Jeremy jumped, or jerked his controller back, and reacted to anything in the game… 

Close enough that Michael could smell Jeremy, and that really, _really_ wasn't a good thing. 

The problem was that Jeremy was much more of a disaster than usual lately. To be honest, Jeremy’s entire life had taken a turn for the shittier. And Michael wanted to help. Of course he did. It was important to help your best friend, and even more so if he happened to be your only friend worth mentioning… the only person who would let you ramble on about nineties TV shows or obscure documentaries or that report you read on how weed was about a gajillion times better for your body than alcohol, or…

Michael cleared his throat, and opened his mouth, only for the words he'd wanted to say to die on his tongue. “Nice shot,” he said instead, relieved hat how warm and positive his voice sounded. Jeremy gave him a bright, genuine smile, briefly raising his game controller like he was giving a toast, before going back to the very important task of obliterating the hell out of a horde of emerald gargoyles. Michael looked away from his friend, absent for half a second, and then he swerved with his whole body as he sent his character darting away from a narrowly missed arrow. Jeremy laughed. 

“Dude, you suck at this. Give me your controller. I'm taking over as first player.” Michael shrugged, smiled, and tossed it over, taking Jeremy’s player two in exchange. 

They played like that for a while, until it got to be around eight o’clock. At this time, it was Michael's stomach, and not his mouth, that decided to cry out in protest of Jeremy’s thoroughly sucky home situation. Which was to say, Michael's stomach started growling. Audibly. Every time it happened, Michael twitched, and pulled his hoodie tighter around himself, as if that would stop the sound.

Around the third grumble, Jeremy snickered. “What are you hiding in there, anyway?” 

“Nothing. That's sort of the point. Or do I have to explain to you why…”

“No. No, I get it.” 

“You gonna feed me or what?” Michael teased. 

“Right. Of course. Some host I am.” Jeremy ran his hand up through his hair, and paused the game.

“Since when am I a guest?” 

“True. You’re practically a card carrying member of this fucked up excuse for a family.” 

Jeremy pushed himself up off the floor, with a shrug, and not so much as a backwards glance at Micheal. There was a bit of a smile on his lips, but also a familiar redness around his face and neck. Jeremy got like that when he was nervous about something, and Michael was used to Jeremy being nervous about stuff, albeit not usually at home with only the two of them around. 

Next, he was going to start stuttering. 

“So, left over t-take out?”

God, Jeremy was so predictable. Michael put his hand on his shoulder. 

“We’ve got pizza!” Jeremy continued. “And… more p-pizza. And also two day old pizza. I think m-my dad’s trying to compensate for giving up on clothes. Um… we’ve also got Chinese take-out, but it's been in the fridge for like four days, and it's only steamed... steamed um... broccoli, from that one night when dad was t-trying… trying to be nutritious or whatever?” 

“Yeah, I can do without rotten broccoli, but thanks for the offer I guess.” 

Jeremy opened his refrigerator door, just a part of the way, as if he didn't want Micheal to see it. It was full of haphazardly stacked boxes, with condiments and Tupperware containers full of who-knows-what shoved deep in back. Michael watched as Jeremy peeked into few of the boxes, and tried to keep his concern limited to worries about his friend’s well-being, and not the personal safety risk that he was about to take by eating his food. Even so, Micheal couldn't help the way that his nose wrinkled when he caught Jeremy sniffing experimentally at the contents of one of the boxes.

Jeremy caught the look. “It's fine,” he promised. “Look!” He took a big bite out of a pizza slice, before practically shoving it at Michael, who bit into it automatically, and then made a face. Why had he done that? Sure, Jeremy had been the one to all but stuff it into his mouth but…

“If everything's so fine,” Michael said, chewing, “Why am I eating something that you just drooled all over?” 

“I was giving it to you to inspect?” Jeremy looked at the pizza slice, which he was still holding up in Micheal’s face, and then handed it over to him. Michael took it, and he also took the pizza box from Jeremy’s arms, setting it down on the table. 

“Right,” Michael said. “Well, it’s not poisonous, if you were wondering. Just chewy.” 

“I bit into it first!” Jeremy protested. “If it was poisonous, or rotten, or whatever, I would've been to first to fall!” 

“I know, I know. You got my back, and I've got yours. And hey, if we get sick off this later, at least we’ll go down together. You wanna sit down?”

“You don't to want to eat it upstairs?” Jeremy asked.

“Here’s fine,” said Michael, with a shrug that just might have been too casual. He still needed to talk to Jeremy, and he knew that he wouldn't if they were upstairs with their games blaring. 

Jeremy’s own shrug had that same too-casual heavy lightness, and as Michael took his seat at the table, the air was colored by it. 

“You want me to teach you how to do laundry?” Michael ventured, after a couple minutes and a few bites of cold pizza. 

“What?” Jeremy half squeaked. 

“It's fine if you don't know how to do it,” Michael said quickly. “Dude, it's fine. I can show you, no big deal.” 

“I know how to do laundry,” Jeremy protested. “You just, like, put the detergent in the machine and…” Jeremy made a vague sort of spinning motion with his hands. 

“Right. And then… then you have to turn it on.” 

Jeremy stared at Michael for a minute, and Micheal couldn't help but think that this conversation was going every bit as badly as he'd worried it might. 

“I… um… know that you turn it on,” Jeremy said. “It doesn't take a rocket scientist. _Of course_ you turn it on. By pressing the on button.” 

“Well, yeah. I wasn't trying to imply that you thought you turned it on by jumping around in circles or reciting a special laundry incantation or whatever.” 

It was a weak attempt at a joke, but it got a smile out of Jeremy anyway, even if it only lasted for a few seconds. Then Jeremy was letting out a breath very slowly, like he didn't want Michael to notice. He took a bite out of his pizza, then another, before putting it down on his plate. His hands fell to his sides, and and Michael could see the way that he clenched them and then released beneath the table, just once. 

“Hey Michael?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Do I smell?” 

Michael opened his mouth, then closed it. Well, there was no backing down now. “Don't freak,” he said. “It could definitely be worse. I'm ninety percent sure it's just your clothes. Easy to take care of, right?” 

“How bad is it? Like just fell off a garbage truck bad, or dog farted in a rotten egg factory bad, or…”

Michael would have been amused by Jeremy’s creativity, if he didn't look so uncomfortable. 

“It's not that bad! Look, you’re great, it's fine. I'll even inhale!” 

In maybe his most impulsive move of the night, Michael got up from his seat, threw an arm over Jeremy, and took a deep exaggerated whiff. Now Jeremy was definitely red all over, and besides the odor of overripe best friend, the main thing that Michael noticed was the heat that emanated from him. 

“You okay?” Micheal asked. 

Jeremy made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh, and the weird choking noise he made whenever he almost got up the nerve to try and talk to Christine, and she thwarted all of his carefully laid plans by actually answering him. 

A beat. 

“You’re so weird,” Jeremy said finally, which made Micheal release him. 

“That makes two of us. And there's nothing wrong with that. So own it! I do.” 

“About the...about the laundry,” Jeremy started. Michael waited for him. 

“We’re out of laundry detergent,” Jeremy admitted. “And, um… you know, everything? Basically everything else. Mom took the car when she left, and dad’s still out of commission, so… yeah, no laundry detergent. I should've still gone to get some, though. And I know how to do laundry.” 

“You want me to drive you to the grocery store?” Michael asked. Jeremy’s short nod made Micheal want to hug him again. “Can you get some money off your dad?” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Of course. No problem.” 

“Ok. Get some money, and we’ll get in the car.” 

 

———————

**Notes:**

**\---Stay tuned for the thrilling second chapter in which, get this, Michael and Jeremy are going to go to the grocery store!! Because it turns out that I'm the kind of person who wants to write a multi-chapter epic about buying and using laundry detergent.**

**\-- Please tell me what you think of my story? I've never written for this fandom before.**

**\-- So, Crystal Quest. I had a game called that on my first computer, but it was just a really simple thing where you ate sparkly pixels. I don't know anything about video games, so I grabbed the name, and just started make stuff up.**


	2. SUPERMARKET

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE LAUNDRY SAGA CONTINUES, NOW FROM JEREMY'S POINT OF VIEW!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will our heroes manage to survive Stop & Shop? Will Jeremy ever be clean?? Will they make any other purchases?? Will they find love in the dry foods aisle? Dear reader, I know that you are on the edge of your seat with excitement. Please try not to let all the anticipation get to you.

_Get some money and get in the car._

What Michael was really saying was that he'd help, and it was all Jeremy could do to swallow down the lump in his throat at how fucking relieved he was that he finally didn't have to do everything alone. Not that things were that bad. Sure, mom was gone, and dad had taken to spending his days traipsing around in his underwear (when he actually got out of bed), but things were good. They were fine. Jeremy was surviving, and Michael was going to _help_ him survive _better_ , and besides Jeremy knew that he was old enough to be taking care of himself and doing so so much better than he currently was, and he needed to improve at everything, be more effective, and less fucked up, and better, and…

“I should be doing better than this,” Jeremy blurted out, as he stood with his hand on the handle of the door of Micheal’s PT Cruiser. In his other hand, he clenched a crumpled up wad of twenties that he'd grabbed out of his dad’s wallet, and the money was already damp with sweat, and seriously how gross was that?

“Alright.” Michael leaned against his door, peering at Jeremy over the roof of the car. “I can practically hear your brain buzzing, you know that?” 

A short laugh. “Try being inside it.” Jeremy focused his gaze on Micheal, who was regarding him without any judgement or annoyance. He opened the car door. He could do this.

It wasn't a long ride to the supermarket. Michael kept the windows open, and his music blasting, only lowering it every now and then to tell Jeremy something he liked about the song playing, or an obscure fact about the singer, or to translate the chorus of that one pop song that was mostly in Tagalog, even though he'd translated that same chorus for Jeremy at least eighty times by now. 

Arriving at the store brought a subtle but familiar change in Michael. The hood of his jacket went up, and he ghosted his finger over the clunky headphones that he always kept around his neck, hanging there like a protective talisman against all the bullshit that the world could serve up on a seemingly normal summer night. Michael didn't talk about it much, but he'd explained a little to Jeremy about how he just didn't _like_ a lot of places, because the lights were fluorescent and unrelenting, and the music was crap, and the inhabitants were unpredictable at best and outright hostile at worst. Jeremy didn't entirely understand all of it. He supposed it was a lot of have to deal with, but he also knew that Micheal had his ways of coping, and once he'd decided that a place with worth braving, he was damn well going to brave it.

Besides, Michael didn't look like he especially hated the supermarket today. He was at approximately his normal level of discomfort with the outside world, while Jeremy’s discomfort with himself was pretty much through the roof, which was why they were on this mission in the first place. 

“Do you think anybody n-notices that I straight up reek?” Jeremy whispered to Michael, as they got the cart. “Do you think _everybody_ notices?” 

“First of all, no. Second of all, it doesn't matter, because I'm going to stand next to you, so if anybody notices they won't know which one of us it is.” 

“Dude, I can't let you take that kind of hit for me.” 

A shrug. “It's not a hit. I don't care about what anybody here thinks. And hey, there’s always a good chance that I stink of weed and we’re just too used to it to notice.” 

“Yeah, I guess, but…”

“They’re going to peg you as a law a breaking degenerate, and it's all going to be my fault.” 

“Maybe? I mean, probably not.” 

“The point is, my plan is brilliant, and it's your duty as a friend to let me be proud of it.” 

Jeremy paused. In front of him, Stop & Shop’s automatic doors gaped like the maw of a hungry beast, and he didn't think that he could face it alone. He squared his shoulders, then nodded his assent, and as he gripped the handle of the shopping cart, Michael fell in next to him, his hands beside Jeremy’s. And it felt good. Jeremy had to admit that it felt good… kind of warm, and kind of safe, and really really extremely gay, but as usual he dismissed that last thought, because it was about a thousand times more than he was ready to deal with during the course of an emergency mission to buy laundry detergent. Besides, Michael was already guiding the cart, and launching into an explanation of why the use of Jim Hansen creatures in fantasy movies from the late eighties and early nineties was every bit as innovative and cool as modern CGI, and his smile and the steady stream of conversation had a deliciously insulating feeling.

Sometimes, Jeremy was jealous of Michael, and his capability of retreating into a universe where it was just the two of them. Jeremy had tried it more times than he could count, but it was hard to shake the worry that other people were judging him, which mingled uncomfortably with the pervasive, stupid desire to _be_ those people instead of himself. And yeah, it wasn't like the grocery store was the height of cool, but even here, people were cooler and chiller than Jeremy. Like there was a guy, probably college aged, and Jeremy caught him ruffling his girlfriend’s hair out of the corner of his eye, and as the guy dropped a case of beer into his cart, it was just like _god_ why couldn't Jeremy be like that? Why was he shuffling around, practically holding hands with Michael, because he was so hopeless that he needed his best friend to protect him from his on stench?

“You have any brand preferences or whatever?” Michael asked, pulling Jeremy from his reverie. They were now plunged deep into the depths of the laundry aisle. Jeremy rubbed his eyes, like he was waking from a dream.

“…um… not blue?” It was the first thing that jumped to Jeremy’s mind, as he tried to picture the empty blue bottle of detergent that had been sitting forlornly above the washing machine for way too long. 

“Not blue?” Michael laughed. 

“Well, usually I don't get to decide on what kind of detergent we use, so-so I'm thinking, it's time to take a stand, right? To be my own person who makes my own choices?” 

“About laundry detergent.” 

“It's a start! Anyway, this red laundry detergent looks amazing.” 

“Spectacular.” 

“Awesome.” 

Michael clapped Jeremy on the shoulder. “This is going to be the best laundry of your entire life! You know what? I think you should splurge! On dryer sheets! Like, normally I think dryer sheets are capitalist bullshit, but this is like your inaugural load of laundry, so I propose we go all out.” 

“We should get champagne. I mean, we can't get champagne, but shit…”. 

“I hear Tide is the champagne of fabric softener. I… actually can't believe I just said that.” 

“Bleach is the champagne of fabric softener,” Jeremy shot back, to Michael's visible horror. God, he loved Michael. He was just… he knew what to do. In fact, Michael was already loading a bottle of red laundry detergent, and an orange box of dryer sheets into the cart. For a second, Michael's hand hovered over a blue bottle of fabric softener, but then he grabbed a purple one, adorned with a picture of a teddy bear snuggling a pile of colorful sweaters. 

“Do we need anything else?” Jeremy asked, realizing only belatedly that it was kind of a weird thing to be asking about a trip to buy goods for his own household, which he should certainly know better than Michael (and also the purple fabric softener was gay. Gaaaay. Very very gay. In a people at school would make fun of him for it kind of way. And sure, Michael was also gay and Jeremy adored him, but fabric softener wasn't worth painting a target on his back the way that Michael was.). 

“Toilet paper,” Michael said, undaunted by the task of creating another person’s shopping list on the fly. “Bread. Lunch meat. Um… if we get you like eggs or something, are you actually gonna cook them?” 

Jeremy shook his head.

“Cool. No eggs. Chips, milk, cereal, cookies. Gram crackers, for me. Fruit roll-ups?” Michael was already steering them towards the snack aisle. 

They made quick work of everything from there, loading up the cart with all the necessities they could afford, purchasing them, and then loading them into Michael's car. 

Getting in, Jeremy felt just a little lighter than he had when they’d set off. At least he was trying to feel lighter. All in all, it hadn't been too bad of a trip. He’d gotten through it, after all. In Jeremy’s world, that was the closest thing to a win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NOT OVER. This is so not over. 
> 
> (((please comment on my story i'm actually putting a lot of work into this)))
> 
> (((also, Michael in this chapter. I think that he might come off as too purely *there* for Jeremy, but it's Jeremy's POV and there will be more of Michael's take on the situation and on Life in upcoming chapters.))


	3. In which cleaning sort of kind of happens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the housecleaning rollercoaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy POV again, because this fic is a Jeremy POV sandwich. In the final chapter we'll be back to Michael.

At the age of six, Jeremy’s grandma had given him a little red and yellow Fischer Price vacuum cleaner for Hanukkah, and he'd loved that thing, even when Michael had taken one look at it and stomped around the house, ranting about how the _old people_ were trying to trick him into doing _chores_. Now Michael seemed to be on a quest to discover and personally vanquish every last neglected chore in the Heere household. It was funny, and that was the weird thing about twelve years of friendship. Sometimes Micheal would do something completely mundane and ordinary, like open the closet to lug out the Hoover and the dusty baskets of cleaning supplies that lived in there, and Jeremy would have to bite back a laugh, because he was imagining a much younger boy, staring bemusedly at a toy vacuum, totally unimpressed with the way it really rumbled when you moved it around. 

They’d already gotten the groceries out of the car, and safely stowed them in the fridge and cupboards, and now they were onto stage two of their mission. Stage two, Jeremy supposed, was cleaning, which he'd never much been allowed to help with before. At least his mom had had a way of claiming that him and his dad for were underfoot when they tried to help, and then claiming that him and dad were treating her like a maid inevitably left it up to her. In all fairness, some of her gripes were legitimate, like the time Jeremy had tried to help organize the kitchen and put half the utensils on shelves that he could reach but she couldn't. That'd been pretty crappy of him, but then he hadn't _thought_... 

“Do you have any ideas of the faces you make?” Michael asked. The things in the closet were all out now, but they looked much more like a disordered pile of chaos than a coherent action plan. Jeremy also didn't have any idea what kind of faces he made, so he shrugged at Michael and his mess. With a quick gesture towards his own face, Michael assumed a dreamy grin, and then a stricken frown in quick succession.

“I don't actually look like that!” Jeremy protested. 

“Do too. You wanna get a start on that laundry? Unless you were bluffing when you said you knew how to do it.”

“No, no, I totally know how to do it.” 

“Good,” Michael said. “Love you and all, but I’ll let you handle your own dirty underwear.” 

“Er…yeah.” Jeremy grimaced, but he gave Michael a thumbs up as he turned away, with a few good shakes of his arms to try and dispel some of the nervous, fluttering energy that was bubbling up in him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Michael tugging at his hair, apparently perplexed at the haphazard collection of sprays and sponges he'd amassed. Anyway, Jeremy guessed that maybe he should leave him alone. He had laundry to do. 

Laundry. 

Laundry laundry laundry laundry laundry. First Jeremy grabbed the detergent and things off the kitchen counter. Then he took a trip around his bedroom and the bathroom, filling his arms with discarded socks, stray t-shirts, underwear, jeans, and hoodies. Soon his arms were full, and he was standing in front of the washing machine, trying to decide whether he should do separate loads for light and dark and colors. 

“This is bullshit,” he said out loud, before dropping everything into the machine at once. Seconds later, his mind filled with visions of every article of clothing he owned taking on a grimy gray color, because he'd washed them all together like a complete and total idiot, and then he was grumbling as he yanked the clothes out and started to sort them into piles. 

He could wash his darks first. He had more of those. Should he wash the clothes that he was wearing, or continue to walk around in a cloud of BO for another hour or two? Maybe he could just wash his shirt, since it was his favorite one, but then he'd have to walk around shirtless, which wasn't a big deal around Michael, except Jeremy definitely didn't want to become like his father. If he'd learned anything in the last few weeks, it was that everything was hard, and also forgoing useful and necessary articles of clothing was a slippery slope. He sighed, and tugged at his sleeves, suddenly wishing they were long, as if long sleeves and maybe a turtleneck would be the best way to bring balance back to his household, and he could cover himself enough to serve him and his father both, because holy fuck _seriously_ why the ever-loving _fuck_ was everything so hard?

Never mind. Never mind, never mind, never mind. Forget about that. Overthinking things didn't make them better. Being calm and not giving a shit made them better. 

Jeremy tapped his fingers against the machine that he'd just loaded, until a song-like pattern started to emerge. Then he realized what he was doing, and abruptly stopped. He poured in a capful of detergent, and then threw in a handful of dryer sheets. He opened up the fabric softener, and sniffed it. It smelled overly sweet, like fake flowers, not right. He closed it up again, started to put it on the shelf, and then remembered how excited Michael had been to buy it. Maybe he should try it out. He opened the bottle, tilted it in the direction of his clothes, stopped. He could pour it down the toilet, and just make it look like he had used it, because Michael would never purposely lead him astray, but Michael also didn't know the first thing about interacting with other people, and liked to completely ignore the way that doing and wearing and saying certain things made people notice you, and then notice that they hated you, especially in high school. People at school said enough things about Jeremy as it was, that he was gay, and weird, and pervy, and… and _tall_. They'd definitely found ways to make fun of him for being tall. 

So Jeremy flushed the softener. And wondered what was wrong with him. It wasn't like Michael was going to force him to use the stuff, or yell at him for leaving it unopened on the shelf. The worst case scenario here was gentle encouragement, or maybe teasing, which Jeremy didn't mind when it came from Michael. Looking at the toilet water, which still had a few bubbles in it and a sheen of iridescence, Jeremy wished more than anything else in the world that he had somebody to tell him what to do. It wasn't that his own life was significantly bad compared to everything else that was happening in the world, it was that nobody had ever bothered to give him the instruction list, which he needed almost as much as he needed oxygen. 

Jeremy turned his washing machine on, and caught his breath as he waited for the starting whir. 

Downstairs, Michael was sitting on the kitchen counter, reading something on his phone. Things did not look any cleaner than they had been when Jeremy went upstairs. 

“Did you know,” Michael asked, without looking up, “that some cleaning chemicals mix together the wrong way, and cause toxic gas, and then you _die_? Especially ammonia and bleach. And vinegar and bleach. It turns out that you can clean things with vinegar, which I didn't know, except that the result is a sour smelling house that will probably kill you if anything you own ever comes into contact with bleach. Anyway, I was just looking up the best way to get rid of your mess quickly, and hey man, are you okay? You look like ass.” 

“Yeah, I-I guess,” Jeremy leaned against the counter near Michael. “Not that I really needed to hear that housecleaning is poisonous.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it. But seriously, you look like you’ve just stepped off the battle field, man.” 

“The bacteria growing around my room achieved sentience, and it was pissed at me for destroying its home,” Jeremy said. “I also kinda… kinda got nervous and f-f-flushed the fabric softener down the toilet.”

“Wait, what?” 

Jeremy spread out his hands. It wasn't like he could explain it clearer. He'd told Micheal exactly what he'd done after all. Michael put his hands on his shoulders, kinda nudging Jeremy’s head forward so that he'd look at him. 

“So, was there… like a reason or something?” 

Jeremy shrugged. Michael we watching his fingers, which was what made Jeremy realize how much he must be fidgeting. 

“I'm not even going to pretend not to be worried.” 

“It's no big deal,” Jeremy said. “It's just fabric softener. Also, there weren't any other chemicals in the toilet, and the door is closed now, so even if... if... if t-there had been…”

“Okay,” Michael let out a breath. “So, first we’re going to completely forget about poisonous household chemicals--” he touched his hand to his forehead, and then pulled it away, in an odd sort of gesture that made it almost look like he was trying to physically pull the thought out of his mind “—and then we’re going to start in on the dishes, right?”

“Right, the dishes,” Jeremy agreed. Michael was running his hands up and down Jeremy’s arms as he spoke, with a feather light touch that was like a thread pulling at the corners of Jeremy’s mind. 

“You seriously flushed the fabric softener?” 

“Um… yeah.” 

“I guess… well, whatever else, I don't have to worry about you lying to me, huh? I mean, who does something like that and readily admits to it?” 

“Shut up.” 

“Any other random confessions? Like, did you also set your dirty clothes on fire or something?” 

“No. Obviously, I didn't set the clothes on fire.” 

“Well, it makes about as much sense as—” Michael made what Jeremy could only guess was meant to be a flushing gesture, and leapt down from the counter. 

“There would be smoke. Like lots and lots of it by now. You’d notice.” 

“Fair. Still worried.”

They started the dishes, which went okay. Michael usually did the dishes at his house, so he wasn't bad at them. The rest of the housecleaning was somewhat less successful. For one thing, Michael decided that it would be best if they only used dish soap for the entire venture, since it was the most non-toxic option available. Michael also had a way of choosing very specific corners and making those their _project_ , while ignoring huge swaths of mess. Nonetheless, he seemed to have picked up on Jeremy’s need to have somebody else steer, and he was dedicated to the task, even as he was starting to look tired and frazzled. 

When the alarm on Jeremy’s clothes went off, Michael reminded him to take them out and put them in the dryer. When, at one point, Jeremy heard his dad coming down the stairs, he pulled Michael into the closet with him, and shut the door. 

“To preserve your eyes,” Jeremy whispered into Michael's ear, pressed in against him in the small space. 

“…you want me to talk to him or something?” 

Jeremy shook his head, so Michael just sighed and waited, as they listened to Jeremy’s dad rummage for something in the kitchen, attempt to call Jeremy to dinner (it was past midnight), and then climb back up the stairs in defeat. 

It filled Jeremy with an energy that he hadn't known he had. Only on second thought, maybe it wasn't energy. Maybe it was stone cold dread. 

“We should clean my room,” Jeremy said, opening the closet door. “And we gotta put out the toilet paper we bought. Also, we don't need to wash the window. The windows aren't an emergency.” 

“You should take a shower,” Michael said instead. “Your clothes will be ready in a few, right? I'll take care of your room.” 

“But what if you don't? Not that it's your job. I know that it's not your job, but what if you spend the whole time reorganizing my bookshelf, and I'm not saying that you should be cleaning my room for me, but what if it doesn't get done? What if we don't finish? Or if my dad tries to talk to me again? Or tries to talk to you? Seriously, Michael, I can't deal with this anymore. I think I'm going to explode any minute, and that's how Mom felt, and that's why she…”  


Micheal took hold of Jeremy’s hands. For a second, Jeremy shut his eyes as tight as he could, and everything stopped. Even his breathing stopped.

“Jeremy? Hey, come on Jeremy, don't do that, okay?” 

Jeremy’s mother had done something similar to this. All the time, he remembered. It had always reminded Jeremy of a little kid holding her breath to try and force other people to do what she wanted, except for the sinking feeling deep down that half the things she did were because she couldn't help it, kind of like Jeremy couldn't either. He forced a gasp. Michael was talking to him softly, something about how he really didn't need to worry, and Micheal could get everything sorted for him, honestly. 

“What if… like...like, hear me out,” Jeremy heard himself say. “What if we just didn't? Like may- maybe I could just take a shower, and we can go over to your place. Get stoned in your basement?” 

The effect on Michael was instantaneous. Some of the tension drained out of his shoulders, and he even cracked a smile. He was still worried, obviously, but relieved that Jeremy had offered a solution, a way for him to help which lay firmly within his talents. He gave Jeremy a quick hug. 

“You look like you could use it, man.” 

And Michael was right. Getting stoned in Michael's basement and letting go of everything that wasn't the two of them, and the weed, and maybe like some video games in the background was exactly what the doctor ordered. 

Jeremy just wished he could shake the feeling that he needed more, and that he had no way of getting it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a lot of what I'm doing with this fic is trying to get to know the characters, since this is my first venture into writing them. 
> 
> In this chapter in particular, I was really trying to explore how Jeremy came to do a lot of things that he does in the musical, like letting the Squip block out Michael, and buying the squip in the first place.
> 
>  
> 
> Please oh please leave me comments on my fic. It's like 5000 words.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prepare yourself for pure excitement.

————————————

 

Michael waited until he heard the shower start, then went back to Jeremy’s room. He flipped up his hood, turned on his music, and did a little circle around, taking it all in. God, when Jeremy got this nervous, Michael got nervous too, but at the same time there was always this little voice in the back of his mind chanting _fix it fix it fix it **fix it**_ , and so he tried, he gave it his all. 

Jeremy’s room wasn't even that bad anymore, now that Jeremy had picked up his dirty clothes. The only part that caught Michael’s eye as being a true disaster was the bookshelf which, come to think of it, was exactly the place that Jeremy had said Michael would (and _shouldn't_ ) focus on. Seeing it was like a jolt of self awareness. At first, Michael could only stare at the haphazard piles of books and random crap. Then he scowled up at it, fists balled. Not only were some of the books upside down, backwards, or on the verge of falling off, there was also a discarded milkshake cup, right in the middle, where Jeremy could have been displaying one of his prized possessions. It was an obvious mess, and Michael hated that Jeremy thought he was wrong for caring. After all, he was used to people thinking that everything he did was wrong, but Jeremy was somebody he could usually count on not to feel that way. 

Never mind. Never fucking mind. It was Michael’s job, as best-friend-in-chief, to try and help Jeremy with what he was going through, even if some of it was weird, and frankly a little insulting. Besides, Jeremy had a way of freaking out about every little thing, then blurting out those worries without considering the collateral damage. Michael was used to it by now. Michael knew that he, personally, was great, and that all of the negative things Jeremy fixated on were inward demons, ones that had nothing to do with him. 

And so Michael turned his attention to Jeremy’s bed, with its jumbled blankets, sheet that was half pulled off, and mattress that Michael was going to ignore, because it was verging on gross. Michael never made his own bed, but Jeremy’s was something he could fix by stripping the sheets and laundering them, since that obviously hadn't been done in a while. Shaking out Jeremy’s quilt, Michael found at least five mismatched socks, and a very specific sort of magazine, which he guessed he should leave on the bedside table for Jeremy’s personal perusal, not that Jeremy wouldn't tell him all kinds of things about the contents at some point. That was another side effect of Jeremy having no filter, and needing a lot of reassurance. It was just a matter of days before he stared at Michael with those big eyes of his, and asked with complete earnestness whether or not he was weird for liking all those _ultra weird_ things that most non-Jeremy humans would consider too private to share. 

After he finished the bed, Michael moved on to the floor. He got rid of any garbage that he could find there and on the desk, and even trudged downstairs to grab the broom. As he swept, he tried to understand. Jeremy was going through some shit, and he was sad. Sometimes people were crappy when they were sad, prime examples being Mrs. Heere’s decision to peace out on her entire family, and Mr. Heere’s decision to lie around in his underwear all day. Even Michael’s own parents, who were usually pretty good, had forgotten his tenth birthday that one year when grandpa was in the hospital. At least Jeremy was still being really sweet most of the time, and incredibly _present_ , just like always. Sure, he was a mess, but he was mess at Michael’s side, and he _needed_ Michael, in a way that was sloppy and obvious, and resulted in fabric softener being flushed down toilets with no clear explanation. 

Jeremy’s shower took a long time. He came in in the middle of a song, and just stood in the doorway waiting for Michael, who had not intention of turning off his music or letting anything interrupt him until it was finished. He'd done most of what he could in Jeremy’s room, up to and including drawing a frowny face on the milkshake cup on the bookshelf, because it wasn't supposed to be there, and if Michael couldn't take the liberty of throwing it out, then he was going to need to resort to other methods to make Jeremy realize that it had to go. 

Luckily, whatever Jeremy had been doing in the shower (and knowing Jeremy, Michael had some ideas) seemed to have put him in a better mood. He leaned against the door frame, watching Michael with something akin to a smile. His hair was dripping, and his clothes were damp and sticking to him like he hadn't bothered to dry off very well, but they were undeniably clean. As the music faded, Michael slid off his headphones, and waved. 

“You didn't have to do all this,” Jeremy said, hand running up through his wet hair as he looked around the room in awe. “It looks really good. Like, wow. It's a huge improvement. I just…”

“Owe me your first born child,” Michael interrupted. “No need to thank me now. I'll be by to collect my wage eventually.” 

“Yeah. Wow. Christine is going to be pissed.” 

That got a gape-mouthed stare from Michael. Jeremy reddened, first at the tips of his ears, and then all over. 

“I haven't even thought of _dating_ anyone else!” the words raced out of his mouth, the pitch higher than usual. “I-I-I… If… If I-I’m going to imagine a mother for my child, shouldn't I at least imagine somebody I’ve imagined dating? It's like… like a progression!”

“Uh-huh. Wouldn’t want to be too abrupt with your imaginary relationships.”

“Right! It's like-like-like, first you need an imaginary date, then an imaginary proposal, and then finally an imaginary baby…”

“Which you are giving to me as payment for your debts,” Michael deadpanned, though in all truth he was wondering if he should take pity on Jeremy and try and steer the conversation somewhere else.

“Yeah… I… Thanks,” Jeremy said, his voice startlingly sincere, considering the conversation they were having. 

“Thanks? For stealing your hypothetical baby?” 

“I mean, I probably don't even want kids, and I wasn't even thinking of all that until you went and sprung it on me, but thanks for—” he waved his hand around the room. 

Michael cleared his throat. “Yeah. No big. Are we coming to my place or not?”

“Yeah!”

On the way out the door, Jeremy continued to ramble about how he didn't know if he wanted kids, and how he was probably going to be single forever anyway, and even if he wasn't he didn't want to jump right into marriage at seventeen or anything because that was creepy, and maybe he wasn't cut out to be father, considering how his own parents had turned out, and…

That’s where Michael finally decided to stop him. 

“You really wanna go down that path, buddy? I mean, I’ll listen if you have some stuff you wanna get off your chest or whatever.” 

Jeremy let out his breath, with a decided shake of his head. “No,” he said. “I wanna get stoned and watch a movie.” 

“X-Men?” Michael suggested. It was Jeremy’s favorite, and they didn't watch it much anymore, because there was such a thing as watching the same movie too many times, and they’d collectively decided to save that one for emergencies and emotional breakdowns. 

“Absolutely.” Jeremy’s voice was a little tight, but Michael pretended not to notice. 

———————

It was super late by the time they arrived at the Mell household. Michael’s parents had left the porch light on for him, but he assumed they’d gone to bed long ago. Michael and Jeremy stepped out into the cool air of the very early morning, and promptly left the stars and chirping crickets behind for the warmer, stuffier confines of Michael’s basement. 

“It’s almost two AM, holy shit,” Jeremy muttered, flopping down on Michael’s bed. Michael opened his bottom desk drawer and slid his hand into the space behind it. He produced a small glass jar with a black screwtop lid. He tossed the can to Jeremy. 

“Good stuff, right?”

Jeremy opened the jar and inhaled, making a face at the sweet smell that lurked somewhere beneath the earthy cannabis scent. 

“That jar used to contain rhubarb pepita chutney,” Michael explained. He was digging through the pockets of a duffle bag for the rest of his supplies: an envelope of rolling paper, a grinder decorated with a peace sign, and a lighter emblazoned with Darth Vader’s stern visage.

Jeremy was easier to sit next to now that he had showered and put on clean clothes, which was good because Michael’s bed was small. Michael flopped down on his stomach next to Jeremy, and Jeremy squeezed over and made room so that Michael could roll the joints.

Michael could feel Jeremy watching him as he scraped cannabis leaves from stems, grinding the leaves to a fine texture, and tapping them into the waiting u-shaped rolling paper. This was a clumsy process. Thick fingertips made it hard to roll the joint with grace. But the bulky, uneven final product didn’t seem to bother Jeremy, who waited to light the joint until Michael had brushed off his workspace and screwed the cap back on to the chutney jar. 

Jeremy offered the joint to Michael. “You rolled it. You should start it.”

“No way,” Michael said, holding out the lighter and beckoning Jeremy to lean in. A flick, a flame, the sound and smell of burning paper. Jeremy inhaled.

“How is it?” Michael asked.

“Good,” Jeremy said simply. He didn’t smoke that often, and wouldn't really know how Michael’s blunt rated in terms of quality and effectiveness, but whatever. It was good enough. He took another hit, holding it deeper this time. He smiled as he passed the blunt to Michael.

They passed the blunt back and forth, keeping their eyes on the screen. Time passed in comfortable silence, with only the smell of smoke, and the comforting sounds of the movie playing in the background. 

“Hey Michael?” Jeremy asked eventually. He sounded half asleep.

“Hmmm?” 

“So, like, when you go to see your psychologist, what does she tell you about stuff?” 

“Too heavy for after midnight, buddy.”

“Yeah, but what does she tell you?”

“We analyze how everything in my dreams constitutes phallic symbolism, discuss how my stellar social skills are caused by an excess of phlegm and black bile, and conclude by blaming everything on my mother.” 

“Wait, what?” 

Michael sighed, and put his arm around Jeremy. He knew that if Jeremy was asking this, then he was asking for a reason, and maybe he should be serious. 

“She tells me to find coping methods,” Michael explained. “And then when I do, she's like ‘no, no, not _those_ coping methods’.” 

“But I love your coping methods!” Jeremy argued, in a drowsier version of the same tone he used to refute anything the bullies at school had ever told Michael. “Seriously, your coping methods are the best! You’re like a master at coping. You’re the best coper I know.” 

Michael laughed, and patted Jeremy’s shoulder. He was definitely stoned, but also he was just… himself. Just typical Jeremy, who Michael cared about above anything and anyone else in the world. 

“Mostly she wants me to branch out and find some more friends,” Michael explained. “No word as to where these potential friends are hiding.” 

“On your bed.” 

“That's _you_ , dumbass. Um… we also talk about grounding exercises, for when my brain’s like, freaking out. Which it isn't now, but if it was, I could like talk to myself about where I am, and who I am, and…” 

“You’re in the basement.” 

“Right, right. So right now I’m Michael—”

“You’re always Michael.” 

“But this is more specific. At this moment, I'm Michael and—”

“But, like, have you ever not been Michael?”

“Could you shut up? I'm Michael—” 

“Totally. I mean, you’re my favorite Michael, and the best Michael there ever was.” 

Michael rolled his eyes. “I'm not going to argue there. I am pretty awesome. But anyway, I'm _Michael_ and I'm in the basement with Jeremy’s elbow poking me in the stomach which, by the way…” 

“Oh.” Jeremy shifted a little, so that his sharp elbow wasn't digging into Michael’s rib cage. 

“We also think I might be autistic,” Michael said, a little quieter. “You know, that thing that kept your mom from vaccinating you? That might be me. Which is… useful to find out? It's a good thing to know about yourself, so I'm getting tested and all that.” 

“I like you so much. You know that right? You’re like the best person in the world, and I more than like you. I pretty much adore you. You’re the only person I can count on in my life.”

Michael snorted. It was hard at this point to know whether Jeremy was responding to his confession, or whether weed and sleepiness and the stress of a really long day were conspiring to turn him into some kind of affection zombie. Probably a mixture of everything. Either way, Jeremy Heere was coming on particularly strong tonight. 

Whatever the cause, Michael decided to let this particular soliloquy slide, instead of teasing Jeremy the way he normally did when he decided to wax poetic about their undying bromance, or whatever it was. He loved Jeremy too, albeit maybe in a different way than the other boy was talking about.

“You thinking of…um… doing the whole getting psychological help for your issues thing?” Michael asked. 

“Yeah. No. Probably not? I’m doing kind of okay on my own, plus there’s no one to drive me.” 

“I have a car.” 

“Or make the appointment.” 

Michael pointed to his phone. He had one of those too. 

“You hate calling people,” Jeremy pointed out. 

“So do you.”

“I can't pay for it anyway. I mean, the insurance was through mom, and I'm not sure what's up with that. How the hell does insurance even work?” 

“Good point.” Michael frowned. His understanding of insurance and medical bills was limited, because his parents took care of that. All he really knew was idealistic anger and second hand accounts of how bad and scary things were for other people. “The American medical system totally needs an overhaul.” 

“Same. I really need an overhaul.”

“No friend of mine gets to compare himself to capitalist medical practices and get away with it! At least admit that you’re better than capitalist medical practices.” 

“I'm better than capitalist medical practices,” Jeremy muttered, resting his forehead against Michael’s knee.

“That's the most self-confident thing I've heard you say all day. I'm proud of you! What else are you better than?”

“Uh…piranhas.” 

“In what—” Michael stopped himself. He'd been about to ask Jeremy in what sense he was better than a piranha, but then he thought better of it, because there was a time to analyze how great piranhas were at swimming and how they were much more well suited to their environment than either Jeremy or Michael, who had always been proverbial fishes out of water, but now was not that time. “I mean, dude, I bet _anybody_ would rather get stoned with you than with a piranha. For one thing, when you get the munchies, their flesh won't be on the menu. For another, you’re just really great to be around.” 

Jeremy didn't say anything, but Michael could feel him smile against his knee, where he was was still face-planted. Were they going to sleep like this, then? Michael considered, then he snuffed out the blunt, and rested his hand lightly on Jeremy’s neck. The two of them went way back. More than way back. They'd met in preschool, and though sometimes they tried to work on fostering just a little bit of the distance necessary for a maturing friendship between two dudes (one of whom was straight) who were hurtling towards old enough for college, nothing ever stuck. Like right now Michael knew that there was a good probability of Jeremy falling asleep in his lap if he didn’t do anything about it, but the inclination to stop him just wasn't there. 

“I read a study,” Michael said, searching for good excuses, “about how if humans don't get physical contact they go crazy, and sometimes babies literally die from it. I'm gonna to find that study.” 

As Michael leaned over to get his phone, Jeremy leaned unceremoniously off him and into the pillow. So maybe this would not be the night for cuddling while basking in the warm glow a peer reviewed facts and reasoning as to why everything they were doing was super normal. Maybe it was time to just sleep. _Maybe_ there were five new messages on Michael’s phone, and oh shit, all of them were from Mr. Heere.

“Uh, Jere?”

“Hmmm?”

“Your dad’s trying to reach you,” Michael said, but as he scanned the messages, he saw that that wasn't exactly true. “Wait, scratch that. He's trying to reach me.” 

Jeremy propped himself up on one elbow to watch Michael as he read. He looked tousled, as if he was just waking up, but also clean and still, with a frown on his face, and something between worry and contempt in his eyes. 

“He says thanks for taking care of you.” Michael couldn't stop himself from making a face. “And to look out for you once school starts next week.” 

Jeremy flopped back onto his back, eyes towards the ceiling, and didn't say anything. A second later, he started to squirm around on the bed, trying to wrestle his phone out of his back pocket without sitting up. He succeeded, which was pretty impressive actually. 

“You get anything?” 

“Nope. Take a photo of your supplies, and text them to him. I bet he won't even care.” 

“You want me to talk to him?” Michael asked. He wasn't overly keen on staring down the hairy legs of existential despair in the form of Mr. Heere, but for Jeremy he could at least try. 

Jeremy scoffed. “I don't need him. Besides, if you’re thinking of staging an intervention, I've already tried that. Believe it or not, I've been really supportive of him. I mean, he's my dad.” 

“I believe you.”

Silence, and then:

“We’re a team, right Michael?” 

“Always.” 

Jeremy’s only response was to continue gazing up at Michael’s ceiling. There was a foreboding in the air that wasn't supposed to be there, a sense of dread that Michael couldn't quite chase away. All he could do was remind himself that games always got harder as you leveled up, but that didn't mean that they were unbeatable. He and Jeremy would get through the waning summer, then they'd get through junior year, and everything would be fine. It wasn't like the universe could throw much at them that they weren't already facing. Well, unless there was a tornado, or zombies, but neither of those things were especially common in Jersey. 

“Today was a good day.” Jeremy’s quiet voice broke past Michael’s thoughts. “I don't even feel stupid about any of it.”

“Cool. Me neither.” 

“You wanna read that study?” 

“Alright,” Michael said, but the study he'd been thinking of finding before just didn't seem as appropriate anymore. “What about a different one?” he suggested. “I have one already open about elephant funerals, and another about how there might be liquid water on Europa… also an archive of apocalypse scenarios, and a wikihow page on how to trick people into thinking you’re a mermaid.” 

“Not in a dead elephant mood.” 

“Then let’s go with Europa,” Michael decided. He slid down next to Jeremy and read until they were both nearly asleep, and he was convinced that the momentary calm was not a sign of an approaching storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the most uneventful 9000 words of fan fiction I've ever written. Anyway, a couple of notes: 
> 
> -Newsies blogger jackkellystories (of Tumblr fame) basically ghost wrote the entire description of how to smoke weed, because I don't know anything (not to imply that she does. She is a beacon of virtue.).
> 
> \- I was not going for completely healthy friendship dynamics here. I was going for two people who are way too codependent for their own good and hurtling towards disaster, but basically good human beings who are trying their best with what they have. 
> 
> \- The Pants Song really bothers me. By which I mean it's a very good song that fits perfectly into the narrative of Be More Chill, which is an excellent piece of musical theatre, but it hits a specific and probably unintended emotional note for me that I was playing with in this fic. Basically, what gets me is that Michael and Mr. Heere more or less establish each other as equals in the care and basic up keeping of Jeremy in that song, and considering Mr. Heere is an adult parent and Michael is a struggling 17 year old kid, it's not exactly a good state of affairs. So that's a lot of what I was thinking of while writing this. 
> 
> \- The other major thing I was thinking of when writing this was of Jeremy as somebody who agonizes and makes an epic struggle out of every decision (see: whether or not to ride the bus, signing up for the play), and is desperately looking for guidance. In this story he pushes Michael into being the guiding figure a lot because Michael is what he has, but I also wanted to write him as somebody who would absolutely spend all of his money on a bizarro land solution to his search for authority, and also as somebody who is desperate enough to *choose* to betray his best friend and keep said authority even when it turns out to be evil and abusive. 
> 
> \- Please comment on my story? I worked really hard on it.


End file.
